by D. J. Molles
But he did pause.
Because LaRouche was still screaming that he was going to shoot Miller, only now, Miller screamed too. Screamed that he believed LaRouche, that Lee had to stop or the sergeant was going to shoot him in the head.
And that pause was all it took.
Immediately, Rat-face descended on him, snatching his arms up and flipping him over onto his stomach. Then there were others, grabbing his legs, and someone was sitting on his back, someone heavy who made it difficult to breathe. Rat-face put his knee in Lee’s neck, crushing his face into the floor. Someone yanked his arms behind his back and screamed for tape.
The hands were rough. These boys were pissed, and they meant to show him. But the fight was over, and Lee knew it. He might have gotten away if it were only himself to worry about, but with Harper and Miller still staring down pistol barrels, fighting to escape would only lead to bloodshed. He didn’t know what the fuck Shumate wanted with him, but he could only assume it had to do with the GPS.
Lee received a quick elbow to his ribs and he grunted, but was relieved not to hear a bone break. His hands were held tightly behind his back, and someone had returned with tape and began wrapping his wrists in it, binding them together.
LaRouche shouted, “Don’t you two fucking move! Just stay right there!”
Lee struggled against the knee in his neck and managed to twist just enough to see Harper and Miller both prone on the floor. Their feet were spread wide and their hands were clasped over their heads, their eyes looking up across the floor at Lee. Miller looked blank, clearly still trying to work through what the hell had just happened. Harper’s eyes were angry slits and his lips were peeled back, showing his teeth. Between the two of them, LaRouche stood, pointing his pistol first at Miller, then at Harper.
For a moment, LaRouche’s eyes flicked up and caught Lee’s stare.
“Why are you doing this?” Lee yelled at him, feeling hot anger and frustration like lava boiling up inside of him. “Fuck you! You fucking traitor!”
Someone punched Lee in the side of his head, causing his ears to ring and his head to bounce off the floor. He wanted to struggle against them, but LaRouche still stared at him, his pistol pointed at his companions and his finger on the trigger. A warning note passed over his face, like a cloud briefly blocking the sun, and Lee restrained himself. He would not let Miller or Harper come to harm because he wanted to escape. They were in this together now.
When the men from Smithfield finished with his hands, they snatched him to his feet and shoved him against the wall. They all yelled things in his ear, but he wasn’t listening. He set his jaw and went to that cold place in his mind where pain became anger, and anger became a warm blanket that you pulled over yourself.
It registered with him that they were trying to take his backpack off, but they’d already taped his wrists together. Someone finally decided to just cut the straps. Lee felt the heavy pack fall to the floor and someone snatched it up and began riffling through the contents. Someone else worked on getting his tactical vest removed.
When Harper and Miller were secured, LaRouche holstered his pistol and spun on Shumate. “What the fuck is going on?”
Shumate seemed uncomfortable. He glanced at Lee for a moment but quickly looked away. He rubbed his sweating brow. “It’s Milo. Javier just received a call on the radio from him.”
Milo? THE Milo?
LaRouche holstered his pistol. “Fucking Milo? What the fuck does that asshole want with them?”
“I don’t know!” Shumate snapped. “I don’t even think he cares about the other two.” Shumate pointed at Lee. “He wants that guy.”
Lee’s head spun, like someone had thrown a jigsaw puzzle up into the air, and he was trying to put it together as the pieces fell. Rat-face pulled him up off the wall and began dragging him back over to the nurses’ station, where Shumate and the others were. After a moment of shock, Lee’s legs began moving.
On the floor, Harper screamed, “You’re with Milo? You’re with fucking Milo? You murdering son of a bitch!”
LaRouche and Shumate exchanged a quick, uncertain glance.
LaRouche’s eyes darkened. “Are you really going to hand him over?”
Shumate looked lost again. “What do you want me to do about it? Huh? Tell him ‘no’? He’ll kill us all.”
“What are you doing, deputy?” Lee growled at him.
Shumate couldn’t even look at him. He waved his head toward the hallway to their right. “Just go put them in a room. Milo will be here shortly. He’s already on the way.”
Lee remembered what Jack Burnsides had told him about the group that had attacked them. How they were either a rogue military unit or a group of survivors that had taken military equipment. Just like Jack had told him, Milo was making the rounds, using the brute force of his stolen military equipment to extort groups of survivors and get what he wanted from them. If you gave them what they asked for, they would let you live. If you denied them, they would wipe you out.
And now they were asking for Lee, because somehow Milo had figured out that Lee had supplies. What other reason would he have for wanting to capture Lee alive? Lee racked his brain trying to think where he’d made a mistake. And then he thought of his house, and beneath that ashen rubble, the bunker where he’d stayed that contained so many supplies. Lee’s pickup that they had taken and the registration in the glove box, leading them back to his house. They must have found the door that Sam had left open. They must have gone inside and found the bunker, found the supplies inside.
Rat-face began pulling him down the hall.
Lee struggled to stay put, his voice rising. “Don’t do this, Shumate! We can help you! If you do this, he’s just going to keep using you. He’s never going to go away until you fight him!” Rat-face was yanking him down the hall, Harper and Miller being pushed along behind him. “You’ve got to fight him! You’ve got to end it!”
And then the three of them were being shoved into a hospital room, and the door was slammed and locked from the outside.
CHAPTER 16
Milo
Doc sat in the rear of the Humvee, crammed against the sloped backend. All around him were boxes of ammunition, MREs, and jugs of water. There were stacks of canned goods as well, “contributions” from groups of survivors that Milo and his band had come across. Your life for a can of fruit cocktail. The only thing they didn’t have much of inside the Humvee was gas, and Doc could only assume it was because Milo didn’t want to breathe the fumes. Doc had seen all the red gas cans, stacked up in the bed of one of the other pickup trucks.
But the smell in the Humvee had its own overwhelming flavor. It was obvious to Doc that none of the men in the truck had cleaned themselves within the last month, and that rotten-onion rank of body odor and sweat had nearly caused Doc to retch. The rain soaking through the rags of clothing they wore had made them all smell like wet dogs.
He looked around for something that he might use as a weapon, but there was nothing. And then, with dawning self-loathing, he realized he wouldn’t fight them, even if he did have a weapon. Because Milo still had all the power over him. He was still that evil demigod. He still had Nicole.
The driver was a large man with short gray hair and a long goatee. He had a face that would be described as a “mug” and meaty hands that would be described as “mitts.” He wore a pair of Oakley sunglasses, like the times were still normal, like he was still out riding his Harley around. Beside him, in the front passenger seat, was some strange kid, a taut-skinned bundle of bones that apparently was not fond of wearing a shirt, perhaps to proudly display the webwork of scars (self-inflicted, Doc thought) that adorned his chest. He had wide, insane eyes that generally stared off into nothing, but occasionally he made eye contact with Doc and caused him to feel off-balance and uncomfortable.
Behind the driver was a dark-skinned man with the beginnings of filthy-looking dreadlocks forming from his unkempt Afro. He was twisted in his seat, head
cocked to one side, regarding Doc blankly and covering him with a pistol-grip shotgun.
And then in the back passenger seat was Milo himself, looking as intensely focused as Doc had ever seen him. His eyes glittered euphorically and he turned in his seat, still holding the handheld CB radio that he’d ripped from a Johnston County medic truck. It gave him an open line of communication to Deputy Shumate and his little band of survivors, currently holed up in the Johnston Memorial Hospital.
“They’ve got him,” Milo announced, his voice tense with excitement. “Shumate’s got him.”
The big man in the driver’s seat was more reserved. “I wouldn’t get excited until we have him in hand. Shumate’s an idiot, and this fucker’s been slippery.”
Milo’s face fell into a thoughtful repose. “Mmm…”
He turned and faced Doc, his dark, hollow gaze like that of a shark.
The look made Doc’s skin crawl and his stomach flip-flop.
Milo pointed the antenna of the CB radio at him. “Well, that’s where Doc is going to become useful to us once again.”
Doc clenched his jaw, feeling his guts twist up inside of him. He tried to speak but found his mouth dry.
“What’s that, Doc?” Milo inclined his ear. “Got a question?”
“What do you want?” Doc croaked out.
“Ah, yes. What do I want.” Milo wobbled his head exasperatedly. He brought the radio up and keyed it. “Shumate, answer your goddamned radio. This is Milo.”
There was a long pause.
The radio squelched and a shaky voice came over. “What do you want, Milo?”
“I would like for you to inform your prisoner that we have his friend—Doc is his name—and that if he attempts to escape, or is not there when we arrive, or otherwise makes my life difficult, I will be forced to execute Doc.”
Another long pause. “I’ll tell him.”
“I appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Shumate.” Milo smiled beatifically. “We will be there shortly.”
There was no response.
Milo rolled his eyes at the silence. “They judge me, Doc. They judge me because they themselves do not want to do that which needs to be done, but they will not complain when my men and I risk our lives to do it. Someone has to dispose of the infected, but we need supplies to do it with. Is it so much to ask that people contribute a little to the war effort?” He shook his head. “What the fuck is this country coming to?”
Doc’s heart was pounding in his head. He wanted to make a demand, but Milo was so off his rocker that Doc wasn’t sure whether he would oblige his request or slit his throat. He thought there was an equal chance of both. Finally he managed to squeak: “I’m not doing anything else until you let me see Nicole.”
The expression on Milo’s face barely changed, but somehow it became something entirely different. He whipped around to the front. “Big G, stop the vehicle, please.”
The driver, who Doc assumed was Big G, didn’t utter a word. He just slammed on the brakes, causing Doc to lurch forward and catch himself on his hands. He very suddenly regretted his decision to make the demand. He didn’t want to be here anymore. He didn’t want to be a part of this. He just wanted to go home.
You have no home.
He closed his eyes as he heard Milo and Big G stepping out.
After a brief moment of silent darkness, the rear hatch of the Humvee was yanked open and Doc forced himself to open his eyes. Outside, Big G and Milo stood there, staring at him.
“Get out,” Milo commanded.
Doc shook his head, his hair flying in his face. “I’m sorry…”
“Get the fuck out of the car!” Milo screamed, stamping his feet like a child throwing a tantrum.
Doc tried to command his unwilling body to cooperate, but he was too slow. Big G reached in with his giant bearlike paws and grabbed Doc up like a sack of groceries and dragged him out. Doc screamed and found his body losing control. Warm piss spread through his already rain-soaked pants and his arms and legs flailed about in a panic.
He’s gonna kill me! He’s gonna kill me!
And then Big G was standing him up, the massive bulk of his body huddled close behind him, each of his hands holding one of Doc’s arms, and no matter how much Doc tried to fight against it, he couldn’t move. And out of the corner of his eyes, Doc could see the glint of Milo’s Bowie knife sliding out of its leather sheath.
Milo pointed at the doorjamb of the rear hatch with the big knife. “Grab it!” he hissed. “Grab it or I’m gonna spill your guts on the street.”
Doc didn’t want to grab it. His heart was like a jackrabbit trying to get out of his chest. He tried to pull his left arm back, but Big G kept forcing it inexorably forward. Doc breathed in short, shallow breaths as he fought. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
His hand touched the smooth metal and he tightened his fist into a ball.
Milo was suddenly there beside him, his breath hot on his ear. “Open your hand, Doc. Open your fucking hand or I kill you. Do it!”
Doc closed his eyes and bared his teeth.
He opened his hand and grabbed the doorjamb.
The old metal hinges on the back hatch creaked just slightly as Milo slammed it down. Doc could hear the popping of his fingers, so quick in succession that they sounded like someone stomping on a pile of dry twigs. Doc felt the air come out of his lungs like an explosion and he began madly trying to yank his fingers free, but they were smashed in too tight.
Air found its way back into his chest.
He screamed.
Milo’s hot breath on his ear again. “Shhhh. Stop screaming. Be quiet.”
Doc tried to contain it but the pain was coming out of him in short, sharp barks with each rapid exhalation. Milo’s voice was strangely, horribly soothing. He didn’t want to fight it any more. It was easier just to give in. Do what he was told.
Milo stood in front of him, looking him in the eyes. “Doc, calm down.”
“Okay.” Doc nodded, tears making dirty paths down his face.
To his right, one of the pickup trucks had stopped and the driver and passenger were looking on at Milo’s handiwork. Their eyes showed dim amusement and faint smiles tweaked their lips. Like they were watching a mildly entertaining sitcom.
“I really wanted to cut your fucking hand off at the wrist, but I’m not sure I could stop the bleeding if I did that.” Milo tapped Doc’s hand with the knife. “But I think you need something very permanent to remind you—”
“No!”
“So I’m going to cut off one of your fingers.”
“No! Please!”
“Doc, listen to me,” Milo droned on. “It’s for your own good that I do this, because if you ever backtalk me again, I’m just gonna fuckin’ kill you. Just remember, it could have been your whole hand.”
Doc sobbed, the words coming out in strangled syllables. “Please. Don’t.”
But Milo had already set the edge of his blade to Doc’s flesh, at the very base of his index finger. “It has to happen, Doc. Just go with it.”
And then the blade was sawing through his finger, not a quick chopping motion but an agonizing back and forth, quickly sliding through the skin and then grinding against bone—Jesus, he could feel that sensation all the way up his arm—and then tendons were popping, the ligaments snapping, crimson spurting out in perfect time with Doc’s thundering heartbeat and dribbling down the back of the Humvee.
Doc screamed until he had no more left in him. The pain seemed to keep increasing, like a plane rocketing into the sky until it stalled, and the pain finally crescendoed and his hand began to feel numb. It was still there, but it was almost as though his brain couldn’t process it all, so it turned the volume down. Brokenly, he thought to himself, At least he didn’t cut off my whole hand.
The bloody knife was pointing at him now.
“Did you learn your lesson?” Milo asked.
Doc’s eyes squeezed shut and he nodded. Spit and snot and tears ran down his fa
ce, combining and dripping off of his chin. “Yes.”
“Are you ever going to backtalk me again?”
“No.”
Milo smiled, just as pleasantly as though they were two old friends who had just resolved a minor squabble. He looked at Big G. “Great! Get him back in the truck and let’s hit the road.”
* * *
Lee stood for a long moment in the glow of the red emergency lamps that were the only source of light inside the hospital room. Across from him, he could see the faint apparitions of Harper’s and Miller’s faces. They both stared at him, shocked. Confused. Lost. They needed Lee to do something, to take control of this situation, but it was spiraling quickly away from him and there was a knot of panic growing in Lee’s throat that threatened to choke him.
He paced the dark room, looking for anything he could use, but they had emptied the room out, almost as though they had anticipated having to hold prisoners there. Lee didn’t really believe they had planned this. Not judging by the looks on their faces. Milo was using them, and fear of reprisal was keeping them in line. Shumate had wanted to make a deal with Camp Ryder, but he wanted to stay alive more, and he genuinely believed that Milo was going to murder their group if his wishes were not obeyed.
For that matter, Lee believed it as well.
Lee didn’t personally know Milo, but he could surmise based on what he’d heard. One did not come to be the leader of a band of criminals and feared by so many by being merciful and kind. Cruelty and brutality were the traits that earned that position. Anything less was weakness.
After pacing the room three times, looking for anything useful and coming up empty-handed, Lee returned to the hospital room door and gave it a swift kick in frustration. The thing was solidly built. Industrial, with a steel frame. No amount of kicking would break this door in. He tried the handle, though he knew it would be locked.
